The Dogfather (14 page)

After that, I paid attention. Rowdy free-stacks well. I let him pose himself. My tension was already traveling down his show lead, and my trembling hands would’ve given him an alarm message if I’d fussed around in an effort to improve on perfection. But I did bait Rowdy.
Bait:
show verb meaning to induce the dog to look his animated best by offering a delectable incentive such as liver, beef, chicken, or Mr. Wookie’s favorite, beef-flavored Redbarn roll. My own dogs will bait for dirt, but as the—ahem!—soon-to-be-esteemed author of the soon-to-be-published volume entitled
101 Ways to Cook Liver,
I had a freezer full of guess what and was using it. To reiterate, I knew we wouldn’t win. So why bother trying? Pride. The malamute community was my community, and its members were people whose good opinions I valued. Win or lose, Rowdy was going to look good and show well.

Rowdy did his part. When Harry Howland ran his hands over Rowdy, there wasn’t a growl or a grumble. As perhaps you know, these examinations are quite intimate because the judge has to check for the presence of the two required testicles. A rough judge can teach a dog to hate the show ring. Howland was respectful. Furthermore, when he checked Rowdy’s bite, he had me open Rowdy’s mouth. I just hate it when judges insist on transmitting microorganisms by sticking their increasingly germy hands into the mouths of all the dogs. So, Howland treated Rowdy with consideration. As to his treatment of me, he didn’t grab and squeeze any sensitive body parts or shove his fingers in my throat, but his frozen face suggested that pain and disease were what I deserved. For failing to be Ms. Dog Show Fashion Plate?

Hurt and mystified, I did a bad job of gaiting Rowdy. My balance felt off. If the mats had been in poor condition, I’d probably have tripped and fallen. After that, I pulled myself together and concentrated on keeping Rowdy happy. He’d done nothing wrong, and I made sure he felt good about himself by doling out liver and sweet talk. When Harry Howland gave Mr. Wookie Best of Breed, I clapped with genuine enthusiasm, and when my lovely Kimi took Best of Winners and Best of Opposite— Best of Opposite Sex to Best of Breed—I was so thrilled for her and for Leah that I momentarily quit wondering what I’d done to offend the judge. Rowdy and I left the ring. In it, Leah was busy hugging Mary and exchanging congratulations, accepting congratulations from other handlers, and in general behaving like the modest, gracious winner she was.

From inside the ring, Mary waved to me and called out, “See? I told you! Cream always rises to the top!”

The show photographer was already in the ring. Concerned that Leah might try to spare me the expense of a photo, I went through the gate and started toward Leah to authorize the expenditure. Before I reached her, Harry Howland approached me and silently motioned me aside. It’s common for judges to hand out advice:
Take handling classes
or
Get someone to teach you to groom your dog.
I wasn’t worried. On the contrary, I felt relieved that I’d finally get a full explanation for Harry’s uncharacteristic coldness toward me. I expected to be taken to task for dressing in a manner disrespectful to the Sport, with a capital S. What else had I done? Or failed to do?

I anticipated the justifiable criticism of my attire by saying, “My handler broke her arm this morning. I didn’t expect to be in the ring. That’s why I’m dressed like this. I’m very sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Harry made one of those sounds on which silver-haired gentlemen seem to hold a monopoly, a sort of baffled, dismissive snort. “There’s one reason I’m not reporting you,” he said, “and that’s your mother. I do not want to see Marissa Winter’s daughter subjected to the public censure you deserve.”

For wearing corduroy pants instead of a skirt?

Harry Howland went on. “But if you should
ever
again attempt to influence me, I will see to it that you are raked over the coals, young lady.” He paused for breath. His whole face was red, and the broken veins around his nose stood out. “Does your father know about these hoodlums of yours?”

I closed my eyes, opened them, and said, “Harry, I had no idea. None. There has been a horrible misunderstanding. I would never try to influence a judge.
Never.
I had no idea.”

It was clear that Harry Howland didn’t believe me. “By the way,” he said, “it might interest you to know that my Best of Breed won strictly on his merits. I will not respond to threats—one way or the other. And another thing. Don’t ever show a dog to me again as long as you live.”

CHAPTER 14

Angry
doesn’t begin to say it. Nor does
mortified.
Spotting Al Favuzza, Zap, and the twins outside a nearby ring, I hauled Rowdy over to them and spat out, “We need to talk, and we need to talk right now. Not here. Outside.”

With the gang of gangsters trailing behind, I led Rowdy through the aisle to the exit, where I dutifully showed his entry form before hurrying through. Technically, the parking lot was on show grounds, but the ground outdoors felt less AKC-hallowed than did the interior of the trade center. The standard penalty for hollering at spectators (“Offense II, Disorderly Conduct, b. Abusive or foul language/verbal altercation”) was a one-month suspension and a $500 fine, far milder than the punishment for attempting to influence a judge, but I didn’t want to run any risks. We went all the way across the asphalt to a narrow, ugly strip of weeds bordering a rusty chain-link fence.

“Angry doesn’t begin to say it,” I told Al Favuzza, clearly the leader of the pack as well as the one I’d seen speaking to Harry Howland. “This is unbelievable!” As if to illustrate my sentiment, Rowdy lifted his leg on the fence and emptied his full bladder. The deserving object wasn’t the unobjectionable fence. It was Al Favuzza.

“Some people don’t know what’s good for ’em,” Favuzza said.

“I know perfectly well what is and isn’t good for me! I make my living in the world of dogs, and it's a damned small living as it is, and what I do
not
need is to lose my AKC privileges or pay a huge fine or have my reputation ruined forever, and I cannot imagine what you thought you were doing or why you thought you were doing it, but one thing I can tell you is that this is
never
going to happen again, because I won’t allow it. I have never been so mortified in my entire life. Do you realize that I know just about every person who was in or near that ring today?” Abruptly changing my tone of voice, I said, “Rowdy. I am not yelling at you. You are a good boy.”

“Hey,” said Favuzza, “it’s only a dog show."

“ONLY? ONLY? It’s only a place where I know everyone and everyone knows me. I have been showing dogs since before I was born”—true, in utero—“and I intend to keep on showing dogs until I keel over in the ring, and when that happens, I would like it to happen because I’ve died of old age and not because I’ve died of embarrassment and humiliation and goddamned disbelief the way I practically did today.”

Having been informed that he was not the subject of my tirade, Rowdy took an intelligent interest in it. That’s more than can be said for Guarini’s henchmen. Rowdy’s beautiful almond-shaped eyes focused on me with fascination. In a canine enactment of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
, he’d’ve made a brilliant Puck:
What fools these mortals be!

“Do you have something to say for yourselves?” I demanded. “If you’re at a loss for words, you could start by apologizing.”

To my surprise, it was Zap who replied. “Joey’d uh done a better job.”

“Of what?” I tried to ask, but Favuzza drowned me out by saying, “Zap, shut up. Joey’s dead. How could he’ve done a better job when he’s dead?”

The horrible twins shuffled their feet and emitted subhuman grunts apparently intended to express approval of Favuzza’s wit.

“Yeah, well,” Favuzza continued, “there’s more dog shows. Hey, kid gloves is always a big mistake, so let’s forget about today. Next time it’s all going to work out.”

“Next time?
Next time?"
I was beside myself. “There is going to be no
next
time. All of a sudden, I see everything, okay? What we’re having here is a series of miscommunications. I am not upset because Rowdy lost today. For one thing, he lost to a really good dog. It’s no shame to lose to Mr. Wookie. And for another thing, anyone who can’t stand to lose shouldn’t be showing dogs at all because no one wins all the time, and I of all people know that, so what I’m upset about, what I’m, uh, practically speechless about, is that you saw fit to jeopardize my good standing in my sport and my friendship with Mary Wood and my goddamned honesty by threatening an American Kennel Club judge who just so happens to be someone I’ve known my entire life and who is forever after going to think I’m a sleaze and a cheat. And
that’s
what I’m so-called
upset
about!”

“We were only trying to do you a favor,” Favuzza said.

“A favor? By ruining my reputation? This is your idea of a favor?” After I spoke, it occurred to me that the botched gangland “favor” actually could have been worse than the one I was enduring. Everyone involved was still breathing. Notice that I did not ask what the favor was supposed to be for. Keeping my mouth shut about Joey Cortiniglia’s murder?

Zap said, “For helping the boss.”

In an effort to supply a benign explanation of why Guarini owed me a favor, I said, “With Frey.”

“Because you won’t take no money.” Zap was on the verge of elaborating, but Favuzza, as usual, told him to shut up.

“That’s a gift,” I said. “If I wanted any kind of payment for it, I’d send a bill. And I want it clearly understood that my dogs and I win or lose on our own. When my dogs win, I want to know that they’ve won because they were the best. Period. And when they lose, all I want is to have a good time anyway.”

“No dog favors,” Favuzza said.

“Exactly. No dog favors. No dog favors ever again.”

CHAPTER 15

No
dog
favors. Mistake. No
favors.
But that’s not what I’d said.

The delivery was on my doorstep when Leah, Mary, and I, together with Kimi, Rowdy, and Mr. Wookie, got home from the show. In taking Best of Breed, Mr. Wookie had thereby become the Alaskan malamute’s representative in the Working Group competition, an event that obviously could not be held until after the judging of all Working Group breeds—the akita, the Siberian husky, the Bernese mountain dog, the Samoyed, and so on—and thus took place near the end of the show day. You occasionally hear people maintain that they don’t like having their dogs go BOB because the win necessitates hanging around all day for the group judging, which is to say that the Dog Fancy, like the rest of the world, has its share of liars. Mary was perfectly truthful about her pleasure at Mr. Wookie’s win, and all of us were outright delighted when her beautiful dog took the Working Group. Best in Show, alas, went to a breed I shall refrain from specifying lest I create hard feeling among fanciers of the nasty-tempered canines known affectionately, or so Leah remarked, as “the breed for owners who don’t have the guts to bite people themselves.”

But Mary was nonetheless thrilled with Mr. Wookie’s Group I, so when we got to my house and found the case of wine and the big box of restaurant-grade steak on the doorstep with my name on them, I had to let her think I’d ordered the supplies in confident expectation of the need to celebrate. Leah usually has better things to do on a Saturday night than hang out with the dogs and me, but the sight of all that food and wine made her hungry, thirsty, and generous. With my permission, she called one of her roommates to extend a dinner invitation that was not only accepted, but passed along. Meanwhile I’d run into Artie Spicer and Rita, and I’d invited the two of them. Furthermore, when Kevin Dennehy happened along while Mary was unloading her van (she was staying with me), I could hardly let him haul in all the dog gear and Mary’s luggage, and then exclude him. By 8:30, Artie Spicer had my Weber grill going in the yard, and in my kitchen and living room were Mary, Rita, Kevin, Leah, and six or eight of Leah’s undergraduate friends, all drinking delicious Italian wine.

“They’re not driving,” I told Lieutenant Kevin Dennehy of the Cambridge police, who said, “Driving? With me here, they’re not even
drinking.
I don’t see them drinking. Do you?”

“No, of course not.” I was delighted to have Kevin’s attention focused on the wine’s illicit destination instead of its indubitably criminal source. In my innocence, I could only guess at how Guarini had arranged the delivery. Were the wine and beef stolen goods? Extortion payments? Kevin’s guess would be better than mine. I didn’t ask him. And everyone at my impromptu party was too polite to wonder aloud how an impoverished dog writer was paying for the feast. While Artie grilled the ill-gotten steaks, Rita raided her refrigerator and mine to put together a salad, and I transferred French bread from my freezer to the oven. The food was, I have to say, delicious. The party was a great success.

As if to demonstrate that dog people are capable of conversation on noncanine topics, Mary talked with Artie Spicer about birds. Artie belonged to numerous birding groups, subscribed to birding magazines, and sometimes contributed articles to them. Rita had met Artie when she’d joined a birding group he led at a local avian hot spot, Mount Auburn Cemetery. Mary’s story actually began as a tale about fish. When Mary had moved to a new house, she’d transported not only her furniture and her dogs, but her fish pond and its resident koi and goldfish. Koi, as I had to ask, are big fancy Japanese carp. Anyway, after installing the pond and its inhabitants, Mary found one of her koi dead at the water’s edge. The cause of death was obvious: a wound in the big fish’s head. Equally obvious was the murder weapon: the canine tooth of an Alaskan malamute. Mary blamed her dogs, especially Miss Pooh, who had a fishy look in her eye, so to speak. Meanwhile, Mary was vaguely aware of occasionally hearing a loud whoosh in her new yard, a noise she dismissed because she was paying attention to the continuing disappearance of the koi and goldfish from her pond. Miss Pooh and Mr. Wookie remained the obvious culprits until one day when Mary returned home to find that yet another koi had vanished while the dogs had been in their kennels and nowhere near the pond. The malamutes having been exonerated, the fish murders remained a mystery until Mary, Miss Pooh, and Mr. Wookie not only heard the startling whoosh, but saw its source: A great blue heron was rising from the pond with a koi impaled on its beak. “It had been there all along,” Mary said. “I just didn’t know. I blamed my innocent dogs.”